Great in the eyes of someone
by mockingjelly
Summary: Staying alive. That's about his area of expertise. Never did Haymitch think he would have to mentor them for the rest of their life. Post-Mockingjay.


**A/N**: Post-Mockingjay. Title inspired by A Fine Frenzy's _Lifesize_.

* * *

"He asked me to marry him," she tells him one day, just like that as they sit around his table, the scent of the fresh bread she brought with her mingling with liquor.

He takes another gulp from the bottle before putting it down. "Rumor has it that you two are already married. I think _he_ started it years ago on good old Caesar's show."

She snorts, rolls her eyes. Destroys the slice of bread she had in hands. "I don't belong to anyone."

"Then say no," he shrugs. _Kids_, he thinks. There's a reason why they annoy him so much.

"But I do love him," she replies, almost angrily, almost defending herself. From whom he has no idea. He's watched their hesitant, tentative first steps back to each other; he's stood there as they grew back to each other.

"Then say yes, sweetheart," he chuckles, pretending to gag. There's something funny about the girl on fire being, well, _a girl_, with feelings and emotions. The boy's always been the sentimental one, so to hear _her_ say she loves him, that's something. He knows it, of course; but still.

"I already said yes," she tells him, annoyance in her tone. Almost as if he has to be thick not to have understood that.

He laughs. She gives him that glare she gives Peeta whenever he's being too cheesy or romantic, even though deep down they all know she's grown to lo- _not hate_ it so much. "Well sweetheart, don't sound so excited, I'm gonna cry." He takes her in, dark braid and hunting jacket and boots and scowl, and yet the soft glow of dawn coming from the window makes her look almost _lovely_. _Happy_. "Why now?" he starts, "Is there a little loaf of bread in your oven?"

Her knife is in her hand before he finishes, and between the fingers of the hand he had laid on the table the next second. "Nah," he just shrugs, perfectly calm. He's used to her crazy fits of craziness by now. "He's gonna do it right. Treat you like a princess, make you happy. Make you laugh again. Poor you."

She sighs, retrieves her knife and slides it in her belt. She stays quiet for a moment, and then she's standing next to him and pressing a quick, weird kiss to his cheek, murmuring words of gratitude. For keeping them alive. For keeping her sane until Peeta came back to Twelve. For being there when her mother isn't. And then she's gone.

He walks to the door, watches her as she crosses the short distance between his and their house. He's done his job well, he muses. Maybe he's been there when her mother couldn't, but it's the boy who made it bearable for her to live in a world where her little sister is gone. Peeta is waiting for her at the door, obviously wanting to hear about how he reacted to the news and before coming himself to thank him. Same old same old. _Thank you for helping us. Thank you for taking care of her._

He sees her kissing him before taking to the woods, like she does every morning. She'll be back before noon, with enough game to feed the entire district, and they'll eat together, all three of them, talking about nothing and everything like they always do. He'll probably tease her at some point about telling Effie, and the dozens of dresses she'll have sent before the end of the day and how excited she is for another big big big day.

It's just to rile her up; there will be no big wedding and he knows it. They can't hide anything from him. Last night, as he fed the geese, he saw them through the window, kneeling by the fireplace, bread toasting above the embers, sparks in the hearth and both their eyes.

But pushing her buttons is what he lives for.

And watching over them as life goes on. They deserved it.

* * *

They're the same, Katniss and he. They're grumpy and stubborn and unforgiving. They see the world as a never-ending cycle of doom and death. The boy is really the best of them; he's been mourning and grieving too, but he also sees hope in every sunrise.

Maybe he should stop calling him boy, because they're both adults now; but for Haymitch, they'll never stop being seventeen. They'll never stop being the two kids that despite his best effort he could never be indifferent to. The two kids he grew to love and care for. The two kids he failed to protect but who fought and fought, never giving up. He'll always be the boy, and she'll always be the girl to him. _Even now_.

The boy is a saint, really. They got married, _what_, eleven, twelve years ago? Young love. Two kids in love who'd already taken so many leaps of faith together that no one would have dared tell them that they were too young. They weren't, anyway. Not when at only seventeen, they'd set the world on fire and led a rebellion. They were seventeen and a hundred years old at the same time. And then they were twenty and married.

Haymitch remembers the cake. Definitely not a tradition from Twelve, but it was good so who cares? And what does _Twelve_ mean anyway? Not much anymore. The boy had made a cake and invited him for a little celebration that night, and every year they'd just do that, invite a few close friends and have some cake. Quickly the Mellarks little habit got popular and people started doing it too, falling in love and getting married and devouring cake, now that cake was no longer such a luxury.

Eleven or twelve cakes later, there's still something missing. Something that she keeps saying _no_ to. Something with little chubby arms and legs.

Peeta knows her – _gets her_ – so he doesn't push that much. That's something he wants, something he longs for, but as always he's the noble one and he puts what she needs before what he needs. There's a pang at Haymitch's heart when he thinks about what he told the girl all these years ago; that she could live a hundred lifetimes and still not deserve him. He meant it; Peeta has that goodness and kindness that no hijacking could have ever altered. But seeing him hurt and yet swallowing it, for her, because he loves her, because loving her and having her _should_ be enough… that hurts Haymitch more than he ever thought it would. More than he ever thought he'd care.

He's the one who understands her the most, though. Because they're the same. He lost his little brother; his mother and his girl, too, but his little brother was young and innocent and weak and after he was gone, he couldn't look at another kid without being sick. They were cute and adorable when they were little, waddling like ducks on little toddler legs, smiling toothless smiles, but then before you could see it they were of Reaping age and then he just couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. They were all dead in his nightmares. Every time he saw a kid, they were dead the same night in his head, pooling in a sea of red, choking on their own blood.

She doesn't like talking about her, but the girl's the same. She closes her eyes and she sees _her_. Dream or nightmare. Sometimes she's just looking at Peeta and tears pool in her eyes because he has those damn gorgeous merchant blue eyes, just like her. Just like Prim. And then every little girl is Prim, or Rue, the little girl from Eleven. Those she failed to protect and save. And then one night they see him on TV, Handsome Hawthorne, and his lovely wife and newborn son. He leads the Army now, and Katniss hates him for it. She _knows_ it's not his fault, but they all know that she'll never be able to forgive him; that she'll never be able to look at him and forget that maybe his bomb burned her little sister to the ground. And Haymitch can almost see it, how she swears in that moment that she'll never be like Gale – that she _won't_ forget _them_, all the Prims and Rues. Her father. Peeta's father, always kind to her and her sister. Madge. Finnick. She won't forget them.

It's not about forgetting them, though. It's about moving on.

Marrying Peeta, that she could do. Loving him, letting him love her. Be happy. But bringing a child to the world was just impossible. She couldn't bear it, because what if the world took it from her? She's already lost Peeta once, she's lost so many, she won't go through that. End of discussion.

After the news had spread that the girl on fire had married the boy with the bread, the entire district – _hell_, all of Panem – had waited excitedly for the news of a baby. Surely two people who were that in love would want a family. But the baby never came. They're young, they have all the time in the world, people had said; and they'd lost a baby, too – no one had ever come clean about the lies of the Quarter Quell, so people just thought that the death of their unborn child was a good reason to want to wait. People understood. Let them be happy and in love. Respected their privacy.

But then they were thirty and there was still no baby. They still lived the same way they did when they were seventeen. Katniss, out in the woods, hunting; Peeta, at the bakery. She hunts, he bakes. Haymitch drinks. Same old same old indeed.

He knows she's pregnant weeks before the boy tells him. He knows those damn kids too well for them to hide anything. He doesn't even bother acting surprised; it's not like Peeta cares. He's radiant. So of course Haymitch tells him he looks like an idiot, smiling all the time.

* * *

She's _gorgeous_. She may be a pain in the ass half the time, but even he can't deny it; she grew up well. She's no longer the starving Seam girl, nor the bloody and bruised tribute. She's not the Mockingjay anymore, deadly and powerful. She's just a woman, a beautiful woman, and four months pregnant.

There are curves where once there were only skin and bones. And there's this small swelling at her belly, yet big enough for everyone to see even though she tries to hide it. She's fooling no one, though. Peeta's constant stupid smile is a dead giveaway, sure, but there's just this glow about her that no one misses. She's scared, utterly terrified at the idea of becoming a mother, of bringing this child to the world, of failing to protect it, but she's happy at the same time and no scowl is enough to conceal it.

It took Peeta five, ten, fifteen years to convince her. To reassure her, and show her that their child would be safe, that the Games no longer existed. But she was scared. Scared of letting the guard down, of letting herself be happy only for her happiness to be taken away. But Peeta never wavered. And with his words, he showed her that in the grand scheme of things, they'd already gone through hell and made it; they always would. And now it was up to her to decide if happiness was worth it; worth the pain and fear.

Everybody could see what choice she'd made now. People would congratulate Peeta at the bakery, ask him how Katniss was doing. Women would ask if they'd started decorating the nursery, which color they'd chosen for the walls, if they wanted to know if it was a little girl or a little boy. Nobody seemed stupid enough to ask Katniss. And that's why it surprised everyone when she first started talking and talking and talking.

He saw them one night, being all sickeningly romantic, lying on the grass and staring at the stars. Katniss, on her back, her belly prodding proudly, telling him all about the stars and their names; Peeta, curled up on his side, gazing at her. He made a cheesy, stupid comment about them star-crossed lovers and how the stars had finally aligned, and she giggled – oh, how pregnancy made her corny. Haymitch gagged. And then she'd frowned and grabbed his hand, placing it on top of her bump – the baby's first kick.

It was a strong kick. Once the baby started kicking, it never stopped. She was scared out of her mind at first; she was so sure that the baby hated her and didn't want to be there. That's when she started spending a lot of time on the phone with her mother, and sometimes with Annie too. Girl chat. And now she was beaming. Her baby was strong, already a little fighter, and that reassured her. There was nothing wrong with the baby, she hadn't hurt it.

She spent a lot of time at the bakery with Peeta, or at home with Haymitch when she was too tired. She hated being alone now. She always wanted someone there in case something happened with the baby – not that Haymitch would be of much help, but Peeta and he were the only people she trusted. And she talked. A lot. When a client came in and asked her how she was doing, she'd tell them about the strong little kick or the little musical box that Beetee had sent. When Haymitch took another gulp of his bottle, trying to silence her, she'd keep talking about Peeta and the hours he spent in the nursery.

He just can't wait until this baby is born because maybe she'll shut up then. He loved her better when she was grumpy and secretive.

Lies of an old man who's fooling no one.

* * *

The boy was a goner the instant he heard her sing. It took a lot longer for the girl.

But Haymitch was there as she fell in love. He watched them, with the rest of Panem, as they talked on that beach. When she told him she needed him. When he knew she meant it. He watched them as they kissed, and he'd just wanted for the entire country to look away and let them have this moment, because it belonged to them. He watched them in that cave, how in the middle of all the pretending for the cameras Katniss cared for him, how she forbade him to die. How she kissed his forehead. He's seen them wary around each other for months after that, not knowing where to stand. He's seen them try to be friends. He's seen her accept the embrace of his arms, the comfort of his warmth; he's seen her seeking it, craving for it, for him. He's seen them cry and bleed, he's seen them laugh and kiss. He's seen them broken and defeated. He's seen them rise from the ashes of what used to be.

He's seen them grow back to each other. He's seen her standing behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as his hands would clench the back of a chair; he's seen her tiptoe until she could press a kiss to his neck or temple, and then another one, saying _not real not real not real _overand over again until he would calm down and come back to her. He's seen them fight about silly things; he's seen them make up – and he wishes he hadn't. He's seen them be normal. Happy at last.

He can't pinpoint one moment, but he's seen her falling in love. And today, as he lingers at the doorframe, looking at them, the perfect picture of happiness as they gaze down at the small bundle in her arms, admiration and unadulterated joy in both their eyes, he's the one struck. He's the one falling in love.

"She's not going to bite you, Haymitch," Peeta says as he finally lifts up his head after what seems like forever, a ridiculous beaming smile on his lips. "You can come take a closer look."

He does. He walks to the bed and stands awkwardly there, feeling totally embarrassed without any alcohol in his system to cloud his brain. Katniss looks exhausted with her pale face and tousled hair, but no less radiant. It just feels too intimate. Being in their room, with the girl only wearing a simple gown. The girl who gave birth to another girl – the girl who no longer is a girl. And the little girl he's already in love with.

She gives him a smile, tired and slightly dazed, and pats a spot on the bed. He doesn't move, so Peeta takes the baby gently from her and then she's in his arms, her small head safely tucked in the crook of his elbow, her tiny body snuggled to his chest. Sleeping peacefully. Looking gorgeous like her mother and her father, with dark fuzzy hair. When she opens her eyes moments later, they're the brightest blue. Half her, half him.

"Not so bad, sweetheart," he finally says.

Peeta chuckles and Katniss snorts. All is well.

* * *

The little boy tries to climb onto the crib, completely oblivious to the tension between his father and their host. Annie's son, a handsome eighteen year-old version of Finnick with his mother's kind of always lost look, takes him in his arms so he can see the baby. The boy lets out a disappointed _Oh_. It's a long trip from Two to Twelve, and just for _that_?

They try to be polite, but the tension is palpable. It probably will never completely go away. Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly because he was always the best of them, Peeta is the one trying the hardest. He offers scones and cinnamon rolls and tea, keeps the conversation going, trying to make everybody feel comfortable. He gently strokes Annie's arm when she goes only her son knows where; he laughs good-naturedly at one of Johanna's not-so-funny jokes. He asks Gale how's life in Two.

Annie's son takes the kids out to play in the Meadow. Gale has four of them; the eldest is twelve, the youngest two. They're excited by the trip, even if the eldest is old enough to know who the Mellarks are. How they are tied to his father. What he can't understand though is that the animosity between them has nothing to do with old teenage flames. A twelve year-old boy can't understand that something was broken between Katniss and Gale when Prim was killed. A kid can't understand that two people who cared for each other so much couldn't find a way back to each other. So he's quiet, more than his siblings, a little bit shy around these people he doesn't know when his sisters and brother seem to like Peeta already.

Haymitch almost wants to join them because without the kids in the room, who knows what will happen between the girl and Handsome? But then he'd miss all the fun. If Johanna's weird grin is any indication, she's expecting it with some sort of twisted pleasure. He's always liked Johanna. Maybe for the same reason he loves Katniss; they're not sweet or kind of lovely, but they're real. Flawed. Bent, but not broken.

Their house has never seen that many people at the same time. Katniss' mother, who came from Four to help her during the last couple of months of her pregnancy. Annie and her son, who come every year. Johanna, who comes and goes whenever she wants. Gale and his family, whom Peeta invited, telling Katniss that maybe it was time to try and forgive him before it was too late.

It was a risky, bold move, Haymitch had thought, because when the girl had decided something, it was nearly impossible to make her change her mind. But then again she'd sworn to never have children, and look at them now. Risky, bold move, but incredibly amazing coming from the boy, who'd thought only about her and how much he knew Gale meant to her, before _it_ happened. How he knew his wife could be stubborn, and regret it later.

"She's gorgeous," Gale says, his eyes locking with Katniss'. Similar grey Seam eyes that used to say so much between them. "She looks a lot like you."

"She has Peeta's eyes," she replies harshly, without even knowing why. She softens, "Thank you."

"My mom was happy to hear about her. I'm sure she'd like to call you sometime," he says.

"I'd like that."

She asks him about Hazelle and Vick and Rory and Posy. He asks about Peeta's bakery. Eventually everyone joins the conversation. Johanna makes inappropriate, smartass comments and even Annie laughs. The kids come back and Gale's wife suggests they take a photo for Hazelle. Haymitch tries to squirm his way out, offering to take it, but she says it's nonsense and he finds himself on the couch, between Katniss and her mother, one little Hawthorne girl on his lap.

He glares at her for a second, and then grumbles. She giggles. He gives a sideway glance to the little Mellark girl cradled against Peeta's chest, and he thinks, _you're my favorite_.

* * *

She's twelve today. And nothing happened.

She knows about Reaping Days. They told her about them, about everything with that book of theirs. But she's a happy, giggly, loud little girl – not so little anymore – and today is her twelfth birthday and she's super excited. Not terrified.

She's curled up to gorgeous Odair, who's thirty now and on whom she had the biggest crush when she was a kid – that is to say until the year before, when he got engaged. She's sleepy after a long day of festivities, her stomach full of cake, the living-room filled with presents and guests. The boy is playing with the bow their mother made for her; he's eight, with blonde curls like his father and those Seam eyes that Haymitch, Katniss and Gale share.

He'll be twelve one day, too, and nothing bad will happen.

Haymitch looks up from the boy and the girl to their parents. _His boy and his girl_. They're old now – God, he's a _dinosaur_ compared to them – but the small wrinkles around their eyes came from care and concern for the little ones, not from years of sending kids to a bloodbath like him. They're both a bit tense, Katniss even more, Peeta hugging her close to him, but who could blame her? Her daughter is twelve today, the same age Prim was when she was reaped. The same age Rue was when she was killed.

But there are no more Reapings now.

And the girl's birthday is a celebration of life, so they live.

* * *

_the end_


End file.
